


Panacea

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Complete, M/M, Minor Character Death, Romance, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:18:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU. Anders is a young doctor beginning his first year of residency in unfamiliar Kirkwall. He is still in an extended period of grieving over a former lover when one Garrett Hawke enters the scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this story 5 years ago now. Then, at some point last year, I started binge watching Grey's Anatomy, only to find out I accidentally more or less wrote a fanfic of my fav boy's character arc without ever knowing. It's weird. I think that probably nobody believes this was coincidence. I wouldn't. I'm ashamed of everything here but it's 5 years old and people still seem to like it, so I'm forcing myself to keep it up. You are all lovely.

It was cold. Not just cold, Anders reflected, but utterly bitter. It was the sort of cold that stole your breath and robbed feeling from the tips of your nose and ears. It happened to be just at the hazy area between autumn and winter, where you couldn't be certain whether it was threatening to rain or snow, but you were left praying it would hold off until the bus came and regretting the decision to forego hat and gloves. That was exactly what Anders was doing as he rocked from heel to toe and rubbed his hands together, shoulder pressed into the rusty sign that promised the bus might, in fact, show up at some point. Around the time he gave up on warming his hands and shoved them into the pockets of his sweatshirt, he began to consider seriously the fact that the past ten or so years of his life had been a ridiculous mistake.

Advanced courses in high school, endless sleepless stretches in pre-med, and all the worse when medical school began proper, all endured under the assumption that it would take him somewhere. That somewhere, as it turned out, was not hundreds or thousands of miles away. It wasn't a luxurious town in the sort of place where the temperatures never sunk below chilly or above hot. It certainly wasn't an upper-class neighborhood where he would be elbow-to-elbow with the city's elite. He had, as it turned out, made it to a mirror of the place he hoped so deeply to escape. The first day of residency, the one that left him slumped against a bus stop sign wishing he were dead, or at least a podiatrist, was somehow not what he had dreamt of either. That was life, though, as he was constantly reminded. What wasn't taken from you was warped to the point that you couldn't be sure why you wanted it in the first place, and the bus was never running on schedule.

Life is a great many other things as well, which one has a tendency to forget when they're waiting for an impossibly late bus in an impossibly cold wind. Life tended to be a terribly unpredictable mess, this much Anders could say for sure. What he had forgotten, however, is that sometimes there were treasures buried under the regret and scenery that made uncertain paths worth traveling. Sometimes life is a stranger in a several-year-old wool coat watching you question the worth of your very existence. It had been a long time since Anders considered the improbability of the universe as anything but cruel when the stranger approached.

"You must be new around here."

Anders snapped from his thoughts with a startled jump. He hadn't fashioned himself as the sort of person to approach for friendly conversation. He had, in fact, done his very best to avoid just as much social interaction as he could over the past three years. The friends he had wrote it off as grief in the beginning, then they moved to write him off instead. It was easier that way, really. Anders found he had become accustomed to playing the introvert. It was easier to explain his feelings to his cat than to his friends- they had mostly been Karl's friends, really- anyway. He did little to hide his distaste for small talk when he glanced at the sociable stranger.

The man was far better dressed for the miserable weather than Anders had been- wool coat and heavy jeans and when he drew his hands from his pockets they were wrapped in a decidedly worn out pair of dark open-finger gloves. Whatever warmth he took from his wardrobe was reflected in amber eyes and a hint of a smile framed by a thick, dark beard. He was handsome as hell, Anders decided, then immediately regretted ever thinking it. The regret didn't change a thing, though. He was still strong, sharp features and warm eyes and kind smile and thick beard and it all fit together just so. Something in that smile had Anders convinced this was also the sort of man who knew exactly how good he looked and liked to hear people say it.

"What exactly gave it away?" Anders replied, his voice reasonably dull. This bus really could not come soon enough. A harsh gust of wind punctuated his response and he tugged his hood up over his head in response. He was too tired for conversation and the absolutely numbing cold did little for his mood. It reflected in his tone, though his new partner in waiting either didn't catch the edge or opted to ignore it.

"Could be the fact that you didn't bother to dress yourself. Also might be that I spend a good deal of time around here and I wouldn't forget your face," Anders didn't miss the pointed look he was given after this observation, "mostly, though, I'd say it's the fact that you've been waiting nearly twenty minutes for a bus that runs half schedule outside the weekends," he didn't appreciate the self-satisfied grin that went along with that last bit of information.

"You're saying the bus isn't coming," Anders probably should have been grateful for the information. Instead, he was utterly perturbed. His face on the whole ached, though the tips of his ears and nose had gone numb. The day he had expected to be full of excitement and intrigue had been instead a day of diagnosing colds in the hospital's open clinic. Best of all, a cocky stranger had been watching him freeze for nearly half an hour, waiting for a bus that apparently wasn't even running. Anders had, by his estimation, every excuse in the book for the scowl plastered on his face.

"The bus is always coming, but I'm betting you'd sooner freeze than last until it shows up," he was still all smiles, one hand shoved back into his coat pocket while the other gestured broadly up the road, "you look tired. How about a coffee?" he barely gave Anders a chance to decline before adding, "you've got an hour to kill, assuming there aren't delays. It won't kill you to spend it somewhere warm."

Anders was left scanning his mind for excuses. The more he thought it over, however, the more appealing a warm drink and a sturdy seat sounded. There was probably something to be said for making acquaintances around here too, he reasoned. He didn't have to leap too far to conclude that he was probably chatting to a coworker- someone he would do well to get along with if they were supposed to be side by side through his residency. Yet, he still hesitated. There was a part of him, and this was no small part, that swelled with an admittedly unreasonable guilt. How many years would have to pass before a social call with a stranger didn't feel like a betrayal? How long could he really continue to isolate himself? Anders always had been, at his core, a social creature. He hadn't learned to play the role of recluse until it was forced upon him by guilt and grief and a fair measure of fear. When it came down to it, Anders found he had been craving the interaction more than he liked to admit, a fact that left his excuses running thin.

"I don't even know your name," it was the closest logical reasoning he could muster, and it fell away nearly as quickly as he expected.

"Garrett," he responded quickly, that same smile still stretched across his lips, "tell me your's and I'll even buy your drink," he had already started walking when he made the offer. He glanced a moment over his shoulder to make eye contact with Anders, then continued in the same direction he had gestured earlier.

Anders considered once more that the best course of action might be to let the man keep walking, to just brave the cold for another hour and go home and forget any of this happened. Except he couldn't properly ignore the way his heart stuttered when their eyes met, and before he knew it Anders was in stride with Garrett, hands dug into his pocket and wind whipping from a new direction. There was uncertainty, bordering on regret, but he kept following. He walked in silence and listened to his new acquaintance tell him about what his friends called him and how much he loved this drink or that and any number of things that were partially drowned out by the wind. He kept his mouth shut and he listened and he thanked the maker when they finally made it to the cafe, some two blocks down the road.

He didn't argue when Garrett insisted on ordering for him and sent him to find a seat. His fingers tingled as the warmth began to return to them and he could only imagine how he looked, glancing nervously around the cafe while he flexed and unflexed his fists, still shoved deep into his pockets. Anders settled on a small table near the back of the shop, far enough from the chatting teenagers near the window that he felt he could avoid a blossoming headache blooming to a full-blown migraine. He traced his name into the tabletop with one finger while he waited for Garrett to join him. There was a moment where he chanced a gaze up to find the man chatting amicably with the young barrista, so animated that Anders found it hard not to smile.

It was downright troubling to Anders that he found himself warming to the stranger so easily. He was thoroughly convinced that he knew what he was dealing with. He saw the overly friendly man as the definition of who you wanted to avoid when you were still trying to put yourself back together. Garrett was, as far as Anders could tell, young and cocky and interested in entertaining himself for a few hours if he got the chance. He struck the young doctor as unlikely to be someone he could rely on, someone who would ever want to be relied upon. He struck Anders as exactly the sort of man he used to be himself, which was more than enough reason to keep his distance.

Anders reached for the offered drink when Garrett returned, only to have the broad-built man snatch it back away, a devilish smirk on his face. He held the concoction hostage for the promised name, and not until Anders had properly introduced himself would he slide it across the table to him. Again, Anders found himself fighting a smile, this time a fight he couldn't quite win. Garrett caught it immediately, forcing his own grin that much wider.

"So you can smile. I was starting to wonder," he teased and took a sip of his drink. It was some sort of frozen blend that came in a shade of pink Anders could only liken to things he'd rather not think about in a restaurant.

"Isn't it a bit cold for that?" Anders challenged between sips of whatever exactly it was Garrett had brought him. It was strong and chocolaty and, he had to admit, downright delicious. He found himself glancing over the reclosable lid and up at Garrett. His eyes held a particular light, something Anders recognized but couldn't place. He found that he couldn't stop looking, which only left his cheeks a bit flush and his eyes forced to the table when he realized he had transitioned from a glance to a stare. He wondered if Garrett was starting to regret inviting such a mess of a person. Anders could describe his own demeanor as nothing less than painfully awkward. The guilt that rode along when he found he could no longer deny to himself the instant attraction toward this man did not make things any easier.

"That's like saying it's too cold for ice cream!" Garrett gaped in response. If he noticed Anders' behavior, he didn't let it show.

"It is too cold for ice cream," Anders started, only to be cut off by the other man in a sudden fit of ice cream-related passion.

"Are you speaking as a doctor here, because I think I'd like a second opinion," Garrett argued, not before a long-winded tirade relating to frozen dairy and the various subzero situations he could envision himself enjoying it in.

"Then what's your medical opinion here?" Anders chided, only for Garrett to cross his arms and display something of a pout.

"I'm no doctor," and then he stopped, and suddenly he was laughing. The look on Anders face had turned to confusion, then realization. Maybe it was a leap to assume anyone he met outside a hospital was a doctor. Garrett, for as shocked as Anders looked, seemed to find nothing but hilarity, "you didn't really think that I was a doctor!"

"And why not?" Anders demanded, face heated with embarrassment. He tried to convince himself that it had been a fair assumption, that the other had given the impression that he knew the place well, that he had even known Anders to be a doctor. Except, he realized, he hadn't given that impression at all. He had presented himself as a person familiar with the hospital, with its staff and presumably its grounds, and nothing more.

"Does it matter?" Garrett's voice had suddenly, and for the first time since Anders heard him speak, became serious. The humor had left his voice for the moment and he suddenly looked some years older than Anders had pegged him at to start. He looked tired as well. Anders noticed the dark circles around his eyes for the first time, and it seemed as though a weariness had fallen upon him.

 _Did_ it matter? Instinctively, Anders would have said so. It would have mattered quite a lot, in fact, in a number of situations. The more he considered this, though, the more he realized that a coffee date was probably not one of those. There could be any number of explanations for why Garrett knew the hospital so well. It was likely, Anders decided, that he was a co-worker, if not a colleague. It was just as likely that Garrett was pulling his leg. Even if neither of those were true, Anders remained a fast fan of his humor and his smile and just about everything he'd thus far discerned about him for that matter.

"Not at all."

There would be plenty of time for guilt. It always had a way of sneaking in once Anders was alone. If he stopped to think about it, Anders probably would have laid out an entire night ridden with the self-inflicted burden. He would remember Karl at great length. He would recall the months they spent together, every good and bad time they had. He would struggle to remember every detail about the man until, in tears, he would realize he couldn't even remember his voice any more. He couldn't recall his laugh, or the way he held his hand, or what he smelled like after a shower. He had spent countless nights coming to these realizations, and had Anders really stopped to think about it, he would have expected this to be another.

Except he didn't stop to think. He didn't spend his night in tears, clinging to memories that could only last so long. He wouldn't go on to spend hours recounting the final moments of Karl's life, or reminding himself how, no matter what any number of reports or hearings found, he was the reason it ended. He had spent more than his share of nights going over those memories at great length, but this would not be one of them.

This night would be spent on the couch in his flat, talking at great length to a man he had been hesitant to join for coffee only a few hours before. There would be hours of talking, almost exclusively about nothing at all. Anders would spend the better half of the night laughing over jokes he wouldn't remember in the morning, told by a man who's touch felt like electricity every single time. He would wake up on his own couch, stiff and sore and curled into Garrett's hip, while Garret sat back and snored, unwakable until close to noon. And if there were any regrets, any misgivings about what he was getting himself into, Anders would set them aside just long enough to enjoy a new beginning.


	2. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders is terribly inept at avoiding serious conversations and Garrett does a lot of hugging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick thanks to everyone who left kind words! I was seriously shocked that I got any response at all, I really appreciate it all SO much. I was really hesitant to even begin this story, much less start posting it. Thank you all so much, really.

"You really don't have to do this," Anders had been protesting in this manner for the better half of the hour. It did little to deter Garrett, who had taken up the mission of getting to all the unpacking Anders had put off for the past three or so weeks. His protests and excuses and a long-winded explanation of his established unpacking system all fell on deaf ears and, in the end, he begrudgingly joined Garrett in the mind-numbing task.

"Your bed is covered in boxes!" Garrett had noted with no small measure of dismay upon chancing into Anders' room. The expression of pure shock had Anders fighting something very close to a giggle. While Garrett had thrown himself into unpacking and organizing and chastising, Anders had taken to assisting somewhere around a snail's pace. He found more pleasure in gauging his new friend's reactions than he did in building bookcases or lining shelves and he didn't do much to hide this fact.

"I've got a couch to sleep on, what hurry is there for a bed?" he had responded with a mighty shrug and a tiny smirk. He hadn't entirely expected Garrett's arrival early that morning, though he welcomed it perhaps a little too eagerly. While their first encounter, even as it ended with them both asleep on his couch, had ended innocently enough, the thoughts that followed Anders through the rest of his week did not match. He had, for the first time, began wondering how long was long enough. He spent a good deal of the week, the few parts of it he was actually given time enough to think at least, wondering how disrespectful he was being. He had begun to question exactly how long mourning had to last, and for the first time he had done so without guilt. The thought was as thrilling as it was terrifying.

"I can think of a use or two," Garrett replied, and as quickly as he had said it there was no more space between them. There was suddenly a warm hand at the small of Anders' back and just as suddenly warm lips on his. There was a moment of instinct where he thought to push away, to pull back and insist that this was vastly inappropriate. Instead, he found his lips parted and met with more warmth. His heart pounded, hands threatened to break into a full tremble as he slid them around Garrett's back in response. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, their lips had parted and Anders was left staring up at the other man.

It was in this moment, with this proximity, that Anders noticed a great many things about Garrett that he hadn't before. The foremost of these was just how tired he looked. While there was always that particular light, that spark of life behind amber eyes, his lids sagged and there were dark circles creeping around the edges. The smile on his lips was somehow weary, Anders noticed. There was something not entirely right about those lips, though he couldn't place what exactly it was. Then there was the scar. It was a thin line across the bridge of his nose, something faded enough that you could easily miss it at any measurable distance should you not know it was there. It was also, however, interesting enough that Anders lifted his hand and dragged his thumb across the light line in something close to wonder. Garrett's response was a warm chuckle while he cupped Anders' cheek in his hand for just a moment.

"How did you manage something like that?" Anders' questioning may have read as an unsubtle avoidance of the subject at hand. Really, it was the only question on his mind. Internally, of course, he was not questioning the mark on Garrett's face. He wanted to know exactly how someone he had known for a full week and a half, seen once before and spoken to only through occasional text messages on breaks in 18 hour work shifts, could be recalling to life feelings Anders no longer believed he was capable of. This part of him- the part that was fluttering in his chest and surging in his belly- had been laid to rest some three years ago. He had buried those feelings with Karl, sworn he would never revisit them.

Here he was again, though. He was beginning to remember, in bits and pieces, the parts of life that made it a wonder to live. He was forgetting the anguish he had enclosed himself in, the impenetrable guilt that had defined him to the point of alienating every other person in his life. It was easy to let it go when Garrett was there, making a space for them to sit at the edge of Anders bed while he chattered on about the peculiar scar. Anders hardly heard his explanation about a play fight with his little brother or how proud a young Garrett had been to display a line of stitches on his face. Garrett's bragging about getting out of chores for the better part of a month fell on ears deafened by a million thoughts screaming through Anders' head. He wouldn't have recognized Garrett's question to him at all had he not felt rough fingers drag down the back of his arm from biceps to just below his elbow.

"I'm sorry, what?" Garrett laughed again with Anders' response. Anders' cheeks went a light shade of red and he smiled apologetically while he muttered something about having a lot on his mind.

"My story for yours. How the hell did you do this?" It took a moment for the question to register. Then he realized the man was tracing a much darker scar at the back of his arm. Anders became tense with the realization and, in the space of that moment, it felt like all the warmth had fled his body. This was one of those conversations he had fully intended to have later rather than sooner. He considered for a moment that he could always give a vague answer. He had broken some bones, needed surgery, he was better now. He could even admit that it was from a car accident. There were a lot of ways he could tell this story without even mentioning Karl's existence, he realized. He also realized that in that case he might as well lie. Even if none of what he had been doing was disrespectful- even if enough time had passed that there was nothing wrong with him exploring the idea of a new lover- ignoring that Karl ever was? Anders knew without a doubt how that would sit with his conscience.

"There was an accident," Anders began vaguely. Garrett's expression changed when he began to speak. There was no more humor in the young doctor's voice. Anders' demeanor had changed markedly. His head ducked low as he spoke. He went to wrap his arms around himself, to brace his body for the words he had avoided sharing with anyone over the past three years, but Garrett grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze.

"Tell me," Garrett urged. Anders was surprised by the tenderness with which he acted. He was still something of a stranger, after all. Everything Anders knew of Garrett was a light-hearted act, all sarcasm and jokes and stunning smiles. He hadn't expected the gentle show of affection, nor the change in his tone when he encouraged Anders to continue. There were a lot of things about Garrett he hadn't really expected, now that he came to think of it.

"It shouldn't have happened. I was going to the store. We were out of milk, but I wanted to make some brownies," Anders actually chuckled. It shocked even him how many details he still remembered. He could still recall his shopping list, but he couldn't remember the first thing Karl had ever said to him, couldn't recall his voice other than in the context of his last words. But he still had that goddamn shopping list- milk, chocolate chips, and maybe a movie to watch later that night. He hated the way his memory held on to the pointless, how he was left with every detail of the worst day he would ever know but could scarcely recall the good ones.

"I had planned to go alone, but Karl insisted," he had to stop and affirm Garrett's suspicions when he asked the nature of their relationship, "Anyway, we had gone and I remember it all. I try not to, but it's always there," he paused to lick his lips. Why was his mouth suddenly so dry? He felt Garrett squeeze his hand again so he continued, "We weren't even far from home. Maybe ten minutes. It was pretty late. The streetlights were on and it was cloudy out, just one of those nights that seems so dark that it's impossible. We got to this stop, it was always a bit of a bitch. There wasn't really anyone else around that I saw, just one truck. They turned and I started, then..." his voice trailed. His voice was sticking in his throat at this point. He hadn't recounted the story since immediately afterward. He could think through it without a tear, but to say it was a new experience. It was an experience he realized he was hard-pressed to make it through.

Garrett's arm had circled back around him around this point. He had tugged Anders into his arms and taken to promising it was okay. He tried to tell Anders to stop, that he was pretty sure he understood now, that it explained quite a lot, really. Anders, however, found himself in a fit of unexpected determination. Honesty was an important thing, he reflected, more so when it was a difficult truth. This was, at the end, something he had to put to rest. While this may not have been the final nail, it was a start. It was the start of a lot of things, if he had any luck at all, and a terribly crucial point.

"The other car came out of nowhere. They didn't even slow down at the stop. There was a flash, and I think there was a second where I saw what was about to happen, and that's it," he was biting back against both tears and a sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach, "From what I was told, I was awake when the police got there. I don't remember anything at all after the impact. I remember being scared, waking up in the hospital, and..." his voice trailed off again. He had to force himself to speak again, "My mom showed up. It didn't seem right. I hadn't seen my parents in years. My father stopped speaking to me when he found out about Karl and I. About me... mom was never the kind of lady who had it in her to go against him, but she was there," again, he felt Garret's arm tighten around him. He was saying more than he needed, more than he intended. He didn't even know where the words were coming from any more.

"She told me Karl was dead. They tried to say it wasn't my fault. The guy who hit us was drunk, there was no way I would have seen him in time, all this bullshit. But I killed the most important person in my life, and I knew it then and I know it now. The only punishment I got was fucking up my arm. This scar, that's it. He died, and I just broke my fucking arm."

"You can't really think that, Anders," Garrett's voice sounded different. He was quiet, just above a whisper while he held Anders just as close as he could. It was more than that, though, Anders decided. There was a tone that he recognized well in that voice but couldn't quite explain. Just for that moment at least, Garrett sounded nearly as guilt-ridden as Anders was feeling.

"You didn't see the way they looked at me at the funeral," Anders responded, his voice distant. He was making a valiant attempt at disconnecting. It was somehow easier if he could pretend it wasn't him- if he could watch the entire situation from a distance. He had learned the trick a long time ago and attributed it to his survival, especially in those first few months. He had never considered himself particularly strong-willed or brave or even emotionally stable. He had a knack for survival though, and this was one of his strongest moves.

"I really don't think-"

"-Garrett," Anders lifted his voice this time, stern and clear, "I think it's best if we just don't talk about this, okay?" his throat was tight with the threat of tears and he had forced himself to look away from his new companion. Garrett nodded, not that Anders saw it, then rested his chin on his shoulder. Anders in response closed his eyes tight and leaned his cheek in against Garrett's temple. He felt somehow comforted by the warmth of breath at his collar and the light scratch of beard near his neck. He had become unaccustomed to personal contact, had entirely forgotten the power such a simple gesture could hold.

They sat together in that comfortable silence for some time. Garrett held Anders as if letting go would end the very world he lived in. Anders, for his part, was grateful for the gesture in a way he could never properly express. He imagined the man picking up the scattered and ignored thoughts cluttering his mind and heart the same way he was endeavoring to with his outer living space. Even without words, with nothing more than a few murmurs of support and the capacity to listen, Garrett had given him something no number of therapists or supposed friends had been capable of. He couldn't work the words out now, but he had just the tiniest inkling of confidence. Maybe he would be ready. Maybe it wouldn't be years from now, or even months. And maybe, just maybe, when he was ready, he'd have someone to work the feelings out with.

"There's still a lot to pack," Anders finally pointed out, his throat desperately in need of a good clearing when he did so. He had packed away the guilt and doubt to the best of his ability. It was something he could deal with later, as he always had. While perhaps this time he meant it, whereas every other he intended to forget until he was forced to remember, it was the only way he knew how to go on. When he moved to part himself from Garrett, to stand and throw himself into the work he had been avoiding before, he felt a sudden resistance. Garrett released him from his arms but kept one of Anders' hands in his.

"We can call it a day with this," Garrett suggested only for Anders to shake his head and give his arm a little tug. Anders, for his part, showed off the best smile he could muster. It was a bit misshapen and ingenuine, an expression that had fallen from his range of regular practice. Garrett was encouraged, though, and beamed right back while he stood.

"You were the one so eager to clear my bed," Anders teased in response. He burst into laughter when he caught the bewildered look in Garrett's eyes, "That's a joke," he promised, then added with his most mischievous expression, "for now."

"You're a bit of a wildcard, aren't you?" Garrett did not seem at all displeased by the assessment he had just come up with. Anders smiled again, something far more natural. 'You have no idea' he thought, but he said nothing. He simply held that smile with Garrett, unblinking until he had to, and then he laughed again. It was better than crying, he noted mentally. Much better than crying.

"How about we go out tonight?" Anders tilted his head as he suggested it, his eyes suddenly a shade bigger. He remembered he was very good at getting his way by these means at some point in the past. There was a particular look he could make, something between a sad puppy and playful kitten that had the wonderful tendency to win him a lot of petting. Garrett seemed thoughtful for his part, then brightened suddenly.

"I have a friend with a band," he suggested somehow cautiously. His momentary excitement became halted for reasons Anders could not yet discern, "they're pretty good. You wouldn't think it to look at them, but it's a good time," an uncertain smile crossed his lips, "he's got this really...uh... dedicated following, I guess you'd say. This group of girls that just wants in on him so bad. Actually, his ex used to get pretty jealous. I hear a bit of a scene was made once or twice over it."

"And then she became his ex," Anders speculated with a chuckle.

"Something like that," Garrett confirmed, his expression guarded.

"What kind of music?" Anders wasn't actually listening, though. Garrett went on with a list of genres and comparisons that flew so far over his head he couldn't be entirely certain that any of these things really existed. He was more concerned with the strange expression on Garrett's face just a few seconds before. He had become his usual over-animated self in the space of that single question, but something was still just the tiniest hint off. Garrett seemed the slightest bit out of breath, troubled by an unseen annoyance at times, neither of which Anders could rightly explain.

"Alright," Anders went back to a smile, somewhere between horrendously and endearingly unpracticed, "let's do that," he paused and looked back at his bed. He may not have been to a show in years, but he knew how they ended. They ended in the way that meant you wanted a bed to come home to, for any number of reasons, "but let's move this mess first, yeah?"

Garrett didn't need any more instruction and, after a kiss on Anders cheek, they were back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter the next: Garrett's sordid past with the cranky lead singer of Imperium. Also, a saucy barmaid and her innocent girlfriend.


	3. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett Hawke just so happens to be the king of bad ideas, specifically in regards to dating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you, everyone who hasn't given up on this yet.

"Well, your brother is a bit of a prick."

Anders couldn't bring himself to sugar coat it. They were on the train now, on their way downtown for the show Garrett had been so excited for up until that point. This wasn't until after they had made a stop back at the Hawke homestead for Garrett to change and give his fabled lead-singer friend a call. There had actually been a brief moment of excitement on the four and a half block walk from Anders' flat to Garrett's. It was the first time he would get a look at the place he lived, a chance to get more of a feel for him. He hadn't thought terribly much about the barely mentioned brother, or even remembered until he got at the doorstep that Carver lived there.

The visit itself was far from pleasant for this fact. It wasn't long after their introduction that Carver made perfectly clear his distaste for Anders. This was mostly done in the form of him following Garrett throughs the apartment, demanding a reason as to why he was pursuing a relationship, why he had broken up with his previous lover in the first place, why Anders had been brought to their apartment, and how he could possibly be surprised that Carver didn't approve. Anders, for his part, stayed quiet through the excursion. He considered raising a fight when Garrett refused to let him into his room, but instead stood in awkward silence around the front door, waiting impatiently for him to finish. Carver had stared him down with extreme scrutiny at that point. It had seemed, for just a moment, like he was going to say something. He had even opened his mouth to do so by the time Garrett strode out of his bedroom and back to Anders' side.

"It's nothing personal," Garrett promised with a hint of a shrug. He was lounging in the seat across from Anders, legs stretched and feet resting comfortably in the blond's lap. Whatever discomfort Anders had felt back at the flat either escaped Garrett or was decidedly ignored, "he hates doctors is all."

The explanation left Anders frowning for a long measure. People didn't just hate doctors. Not when they were adults, not without reason. The more he considered this, the more his discomfort with the situation grew. He rubbed absently at Garrett's ankles, his thoughts too occupied with theories regarding Carver to properly notice the light swelling beneath his fingertips. There were only so many explanations when it came down to it, and in the end Anders felt compelled to ask.

"Did somebody die?" When he voiced the question, Garrett stiffened, then drew back his legs and sat up. His expression went distant, cold, and Anders regretted bringing it up at once. An evening train ride in the back car, more silent than not, was almost certainly the wrong place to be having this conversation. Anders began to apologize only for Garrett to shrug stiffly in response.

"A lot of people have died. That's how life goes," he spoke in a tone that ran a chill down Anders' spine, "He blames doctors for dad. I don't know how he justifies it, but probably for mother, too. He thinks Bethany leaving him for school since she'd like to be a doctor, and he blames them-" he stopped himself short and shook his head, leaving Anders only that much more confused, "he's a kid. He has a lot of emotions and hormones and all that and he doesn't know what to do with them."

"It sounds like you've both been through a lot," Anders ventured. He couldn't really be sure. Most of what Garrett said glossed over the facts. He spoke in brief allusions and hazy references when it came to his life and Anders knew better than to press. Some things where hard to talk about, and others much better left unsaid on the whole. He could see worlds in Garrett's eyes, though, and none of them pleasant.

"He's lost a lot," Garrett agreed cautiously, "it's something he's not good at doing, but he'll have to find a way to cope sooner or later. I can't be there to hold his hand through it forever. I don't mean to be an ass, just this once, but everyone dies," his tone remained stale, as though he were speaking about anyone but himself. Anders could imagine that whatever the details of their past were had cut the man deeply, but he was starting to learn better than to ask.

"Who knows," Anders finally replied with a shrug, his voice thin and uncertain, "Maybe you'll outlive him and he'll never have to learn a thing," he chuckled at his own joke, though it seemed to take Garrett a moment longer to smile at it. His expression remained guarded as he slumped back in his seat, but after watching Anders for a long moment he apparently couldn't help but fall back into his natural, lazy smile.

"Speaking of Carver, you probably guessed about Fenris thanks to the brat," he said it with a laugh, but suddenly Anders wasn't smiling. He had guessed it, though he had tucked it away in the back of his head to deal with later. It wasn't Carver who had given it away so much as the awkward, hushed tones Garrett spoke in when he was on the phone with his friend. He and Fenris had a history, the details of which didn't matter as Anders had quite clearly grasped the nature of it.

"I was meaning to ask what possessed you to take me to your ex's show," Anders admitted, voice sharp as glass. This day, more than anything else, had left him confused. He had opened himself, become unbearably vulnerable. Just a few kisses, Garrett's hand is his when they walked from apartment to apartment, then to the station, had been more physical contact than he'd willingly had with anyone in three years. Yet, at the end of the day, they were approaching their stop to catch a show fronted by a man Garrett used to fuck. Confused didn't begin to describe what Anders was feeling.

"You've never wanted to make an ex jealous?" Garrett had sprung back to life. He had his arm slung around Anders' waist as soon as they were standing and kept it there after they left the train and started the walk toward the bar. If people were looking, Garrett was paying it so little mind that Anders felt apt to do the same.

"I doubt he'll be the jealous one here," Anders grumbled. It was hard to explain that side of himself, especially in these circumstances. He still wasn't any shade of certain in regards to what he meant to Garrett, or the exact nature of their relationship. He knew something was blossoming, and especially so in places he forgot he had, but to the point that jealousy would be an appropriate response? It wasn't the sort of question he could rightly act. Garrett, for his part, seemed terribly amused by the prospect and he tightened a hand on Anders' hip.

"That much better," he cooed with his natural smile, "we can work out any of that frustration back at your place tonight," he had leaned in to whisper that in Anders' ear, followed it with a light nip at his neck, just below the lobe of his ear. Anders went several shades of red from cheeks to the tips of his ears in response, suddenly tensed beneath Garrett's touch.

"Or, we can drink," Garrett suggested quickly. He led them to the bar without another word, but with that typical cocky smirk plastered to his lips the whole time. When they made it to the place, Anders labeled it an utter dump at once. It was a small miracle Garrett was able to avoid paying to get in, as the young doctor wasn't sure he could justify spending a cent on the privilege. Whatever distaste Anders had gathered up for the place as soon as they hit the first dim-lit hallway, Garrett seemed terribly, perhaps purposely, oblivious to. He dragged Anders to the bar, all smiles as he chattered about who he hoped might be there.

The place stunk bitterly, in the sort of way that made Anders scrunch his nose and glance around in fear he may find a dead body. It smelled a lot like the emergency room on a Saturday night, he realized- blood, vomit, and piss over the heavy musk of cheap beer and cheaper perfume. The Hanged Man, at least by this standard, lived up perfectly to its name. He didn't speak up, though. He found it was impossible to stay too negative, the way Garrett lit up when they were sitting in front of the bar.

Anders smiled just as sweetly as he could when Garrett introduced him to the barmaid, apparently an old friend of his. Isabela was, as far as Anders could tell, all sorts of dangerous. She had the kinds of curves that made something jolt in his belly, among other places. She was open and friendly to him, utterly flirtatious to the men that were drunk enough to leave ridiculous tips. While she made small talk, he downed whatever it was Garrett had ordered him to drink. It tasted like juice, as did the second and third ones, in quick succession. It wasn't until he realized his head was buzzing and found how easily words came between him and Isabela that he thought it wise to slow down. Garrett, on the other hand, kept the drinks in front of Anders, though he had yet to finish his first.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" The opening band had already taken to the stage by the time Anders made the accusation. Garrett's response was a quick smile while his hand rested itself over Anders'.

"I'd say that's a given," Isabela chuckled. She cleared away three empty glasses and gave Garrett something Anders mistook for a stern look before she burst out laughing, "and if he really wants to show you off to Mister Short-Dark-and-Broody, he'd better slow you down."

"Come on now, Isabela. You can't really think that's why we're here," Garrett leaned against the bar as he spoke, the trademark smile never leaving his pale lips. He gulped down his drink, then waved the glass to her, smile broken into a full grin.

"Sweetie, I know that's why you're here," Isabela shot right back. She snatched the glass away from his hand and, while Anders was turning to better survey the bar, replaced it. She wiped down the table in front of Garrett, all-knowing eyes never leaving his.

"You don't think it's possible for me to take my boyfriend out for drinks and a show without some sort of ulterior motives?" Garrett had to shout over the din of the opening band when he asked. Anders was paying them some measure of attention, mostly in the form of a disapproving scowl. They were young and loud, without a cent's worth of talent between the lot of them. The crowd seemed to share in this general lack of enthusiasm, some of the less sober purveyors already resorting to heckling.

"I don't know, Hawke, is it?" The barmaid gave him a look that said she already knew that answer well enough. Anders, in the meantime, had turned back to the bar and guzzled down the remainder of his fourth drink. He knew, somewhere in the back of his groggy mind, that he was going to regret this in the morning. He would especially regret it in the afternoon, when his next shift was set to start. As it was, however, that was the future, and presently he was perfectly content with the prospect of getting plastered.

The rest of the first band's set was spent in relative silence, apart from aforementioned group's din, that is. Garrett had attempted conversation sometime around the third song, to which Anders was oblivious until he caught a glimpse of moving lips right around their fifth number. Once he had caught on, there was little more than a chorus of 'what' between them, which eventually settled into Anders leaning against Garrett's shoulder he felt a hand run over his jeans and circle against his thigh. They sat this way, Anders too drunk to realize he should be aroused, until the main attraction of the night was taking the stage. Garrett, at this point, tugged Anders to his feet. He dragged him recklessly through the light crowd and found a decent view for them somewhere to the left of the stage.

Anders watched intently, or as much so as he could, while they entered immediately to their first number. He couldn't take his eyes away from the singer. He tried to convince himself that maybe it wasn't the lithe, gorgeous number on vocals who Garrett had the history with. He would have been happy to believe it was the short, exceptionally hairy guitarist. Except the guitarist didn't make eye contact with Garrett. He didn't hold it there for a moment too long to be chance, or give Anders something of a scrutinizing glare. It was the dark-skinned beauty the front row swooned over who did that, something that made Anders' blood boil. He felt Garrett's arm circle around his waist and he leaned into the gesture, not only because he was feeling just a bit unsteady on his feet while he nursed on what must have been his sixth drink.

The music, as much as Anders hated (and would downright refuse later on) to admit, was quite good. While Anders would be the first to point out he wasn't one for concerts, especially not once that left his ears ringing for a week after, he probably would have enjoyed the band under other circumstances. Instead, he sported a constant scowl and pointed out to Garrett, in a loud and uneven slur, that he was much taller than this Fenris. Garrett seemed terribly amused by this response- probably a good sign as Anders repeated it several times over the length of the set.

Anders, by the time the encore had finished and most of the crowd had hollowed away from the bar, was remarkably drunk. His eyes drooped and he seemed to be relying on Garrett to keep him on his feet up until he found a booth for them to lounge at. He then relied fully on Garrett to keep him from slumping over completely. Garrett seemed not to mind, keeping an arm around Anders' shoulders while he scouted out the room. He was, Anders decided, probably looking for trouble.

Trouble, as it would so happen, found them instead. Anders forced himself to straighten in his seat when he noticed it was the legendary Fenris looming above them, a bottle in hand and scowl on his face. He didn't seem terribly friendly, at least not from what Anders had yet seen, which only led him to wonder how this could be Garrett's former lover at all. He couldn't imagine someone so cranky could ever get along with a person who was, at least outwardly, bordering on disgustingly light-hearted.

"Leto-" Garrett began brightly. It apparently only took a single word to turn an annoyed expression into a downright angry one.

"Don't even," Fenris hissed before the bearded man had a chance to even complete the thought. He was, by the looks of it, out for blood. Anders was finding it hard to follow the conversation that ensued, drowsy and drunk and entirely unfamiliar with whatever situation they would go on to allude to.

"Fenris, I've got it. Keep forgetting that," Garrett teased. It didn't seem to lighten the singer's mood in the least. "It was a good set. Best I've seen from you all in a while. I hear you've got a deal lined up. Really, that's great, Fenris. I'm really happy for you," he gave Anders a tight squeeze as he said it. The gesture was obvious, and even in his less-than-sober state, he was able to recognize it as the attempted insult it was.

"You shouldn't be out like this, Hawke," He was ignoring Anders on the whole, and apparently any gestures Hawke made toward him at that. He raked a hand through his hair, something that looked at least in the dim bar light to be pure white, and let out a short displeased sigh, "Tell me you haven't been drinking."

"You're as bad as Carver," Garrett groaned in response, then promised that it had been nothing but water in his glass. The admission made Anders frown, though he couldn't be bothered to question it. He tried to tuck away the information for later, to ask when he was more in his right mind. Presently, he was contenting himself by playing with Garrett's hand while he listened half-heartedly to their terse words.

"You know damn well why I am," Fenris shot back, as scolding as his previous condemnations had been, "look at what you're doing here, Garrett. What you're doing to yourself, and whoever the hell this is," he finally gestured toward Anders, though he waved him off when the blond made an attempt at introducing himself, "is this really what you want to be doing, Hawke? It's fun and games now, but how will it be in a few weeks or months? Who's going to be left picking up after the mess you make here? You know better than this."

"I know well enough to live my own life," Garret snapped. He sat up in his seat, startling Anders. His demeanor had changed radically in response to Fenris' words, ones that barely made sense to the young doctor. There was a piece missing, something he couldn't quite grasp about what was so upsetting Fenris. It had to be something about their relationship, the nature of it and, more importantly, the nature of how it ended. Again, he found himself better off not asking in his present state.

"While you've still got any left to live," Fenris returned humorlessly, his stare utterly piercing.

"Are you threatening me?" Garrett asked at once. The corners of his lips twitched in a suspicious way and his expression was almost pleading. Anders, for his part, couldn't imagine a more confounding situation. Garrett had apparently brought him here to witness a fight, or so Anders had concluded based on the tone of the conversation. There was something else, though, something hidden just beneath their words. He couldn't see quite what it was, and there was a decently large part of him that suspected he didn't want to know at all.

"You know exactly what I'm saying," Fenris' tone turned to one of quiet resignation. He finished his bottle and looked them both over once more. He shook his head, green eyes focusing on anything but Garrett by the time he made it clear he was done with the conversation. His expression was pained, Anders noticed, and he had to wonder if there weren't some lingering, unresolved feelings between the two of them, "take better care of yourself, Hawke. It might not matter to you any more, but you seem to have a knack for making it important to everyone else."

He was gone without another word. Garrett was left visibly shaken by the confrontation. His mood did not improve when they left the bar, nor for the entirety of the train ride back to Anders' neighborhood. He barely spoke, in fact, the entire time. Most of his words were spent making sure Anders was alright, as he had taken on the look of someone who wouldn't be holding their alcohol much longer. In his defense, they made it back to his apartment without so much as a questionable belch, and by the time they were inside Anders' mood, at least, seemed bright again.

"You still wanna clear off that bed?" Anders made the suggestion while he was stumbling over unpacked boxes, through the unlit hallway toward his bedroom. Garrett swooped in to catch him from falling, then led him carefully over to the questioned bed. He did, in fact, clear off enough room to get Anders tucked in comfortably, then stepped back with an apologetic smile replacing the usual cocky grin.

"Not tonight, Anders. Go to sleep," he seemed hesitant to go, which was made no easier by Anders sitting up in bed and making a feeble attempt at reaching for him.

"We don't have to do anythin'. Just stay, we'll just sleep, like before?" his tone was pleading, as was his expression. There was a sudden, terrible fear in the pit of his stomach. He didn't want to be alone. He knew the look on Garrett's face. He had done something, without even realizing it, he had driven this man away. That, he knew well enough even in his inebriation, was the last thing he wanted.

"We'll talk soon, alright?" Garrett returned to his side long enough to ease him back into the bed. He pressed a kiss to his forehead and, despite his pleading, Anders heard first the bedroom door shut behind him, then the front. There was no explanation, no apology, no hint as to what had gone so wrong. Later, Anders might have blamed the confrontation with Fenris, or how much he had to drink, or the fact that he hadn't thought well enough to jump him that morning That night, however, he simply lay in bed, aching over whatever it was that drove the man from his side, and forcing himself not to cry until he passed out completely.


	4. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders learns more about Hawke than he wanted to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, this update is super duper long coming. If anyone stuck with me here, I appreciate it sooo much! Love you guys. ;)

There had been every sign. Every warning was laid in front of Anders from the moment he met the man, but it hadn't sunk in. He never regarded each little inconsistency or any of the small idiosyncrasies as anything other than quirks. Perhaps, he considered now, it was because he didn't want to see it. He was still only vaguely aware of what _it_ was, but the morsel of knowledge Garrett had divulged was enough. He rolled the thought around in his mind, only to find it fit far too well.

"I'm sick," were the only words of consequence Hawke had yet to say. Their meetings between the disastrous date and this repeat of their first meeting had been few and brief. Anders had been rewarded, after a day or two of diligent waiting, with an apology in the form of text message. Some snips of conversation later he had gotten so far as a promised explanation. Physically, their contact had been near nonexistent. Anders had chanced upon Garrett again at the bus stop, only to find that neither had words. Another promise came then, that Hawke would call as soon as he'd collected his thoughts. 

Anders expected no such call. The strained silences and clumsy conversations were enough to convince him. Garrett had expected something far different than Anders. There was no one-night-stand to be had here, no easy lay or even a proper good time. He recalled, in fact, that in the space of a day he had divulged almost his entire life to Garrett, or at least the bits that remained relevant. Garrett had, on the other hand, said little to nothing of himself. He barely mentioned his siblings, never spoke of his parents. His demeanor was cocky and bold, yet he had never spoken of himself.

Suddenly, with those words, Anders found that he would have preferred it had Hawke simply been what he assumed- a selfish prat looking for a night of fun. It would have been easier that way. Hell, it would have been enough to get Anders back in the game, so to speak, even if only after weeks of mending a bruised heart. This, however, was something different. The grave tone in Garrett's voice when he had set the date took on a new meaning here. His expression was dulled, distant, exactly the opposite of what Anders had yet seen of him.

"Sick how?" Anders found, when he was finally able to speak, the words stuck to his throat. He took a long draw from his tea, and when it scalded his throat he barely bothered to wince. The more he stared at Garrett, the more he saw it; there were dark circles beneath his eyes and his skin sagged as though he had been losing much weight. His hands trembled, just the slightest bit, when he lifted his own drink, and Anders glanced upon a certain discoloration to his fingernails. His stomach tied itself in a dozen knots over as his training began to fill in the blanks.

"I'll probably die," the words were so blunt that the breath caught in Anders' throat. Garrett's voice hadn't fluctuated, showed no hint of emotion when he spoke. Anders, on the other hand, looked just as he felt. It was as if all the light had gone out of the room. His ears buzzed and his fingers and toes were tingling numb. He prayed for an exaggeration. There was a desperation on his face, the lingering hope that Hawke would break into a smile, reveal it all as a joke, if a terribly cruel one at that. He did not smile. 

"It's a long story, mostly to do with me being irresponsible. Who would've guessed, right?" he finally smiled, but the warmth was still absent from his eyes. When Anders didn't offer even a cursory smirk, his face straightened and he went on, "Did you know that if you just wait to get better when you've gotten the wrong sort of virus, it just eats up your heart?" There was that cold smile again, "Probably the sort of thing they tell you in med school, I'd wager."

"Probably," Anders agreed. He knew it well enough, all of it. His mind followed the path Garrett was paving, and soon he had to look away from the hopeless smile altogether. This shouldn't have hit him so hard. He kept trying to tell himself that, but piece by piece his world seemed to be falling apart again. How long had he known exactly the depression he was heading for? How long had he mourned Karl? Had he ever actually stopped?

"I should have told you before," Garrett admitted, then he let out a sigh and shook his head. Hesitantly, his hand slid across the table for Anders'. However much Anders might have wanted to recoil, he gripped on at once, with a force that made clear he believed this very touch might anchor Hawke to life. Garrett's smile had gone again, as had his ability to make eye contact. "I guess that's not right either," he corrected, "I should have never gotten involved with you in the first place."

"Shut up," Anders hissed. His hand tightened around Hawke's, his eyes still glued to the table. It wasn't the place, and he couldn't imagine it would ever be the time. Just the thought of that word was enough to make him shudder. Time. The way Garrett spoke, he couldn't imagine there was enough left in the world, no matter how dire the situation actually was.

"We need to talk about it."

"Not here."

This much Garrett could not argue. They left the coffee shop in silence. Anders hailed a cab despite Garrett's protest. There were dozens of scenarios running through Anders' head. While he might have preferred the lengthier walk back to his flat as an opportunity to clear his mind, he found Hawke's well-being to be a more pressing issue. Garrett, of course, could not disagree more. He tried once or twice to promise that he could make the walk, that he had done so a hundred times over since he was sick, that he had been just as ill the moment Anders met him, but his logic did little to dissuade.

The apartment was far more organized than the first time Garrett had seen it. Anders would never admit that he had done a thorough job unpacking and cleaning after Garrett had left that first night, with nothing in mind other than to impress him. The job had been done well enough. Garrett commented extensively on how much better, more lived in the place looked now. Anders did not respond. He was in a daze, strong enough that the full impact of what Garrett had began explaining to him had yet to hit. He felt nothing as he poured glasses of water for both. His hands trembled when he set them on the coffee table, and he hesitated before sitting next to Garrett on the sofa where they once slept in each other's arms.

That all felt like a lifetime ago, no matter how short the truth of it was. Weeks could easily equate to years when your time was limited, or that was Anders' speculation when he found it such a far-off memory. They were happy at that time, and for a period Anders felt like it could be a long set feeling. He winced at the naivete now that the truth was beside him. Garrett had taken his hand again when Anders sat. This time he gave no response other than to glance up at Hawke. The expression he wore said more than his words could have.

"How bad are we talking, exactly?" Anders found his whole voice as uneven as he felt when he spoke. It was hard to pretend to be in control when the entire world seemed to be spinning away from him. He was certain he didn't want to know the answer. He could scarcely bring himself to look at Garrett, who had currently fashioned himself into a study in remorse.

"Well, I've only netted one ugly scar so far, for what that's worth," Garrett turned himself toward Anders and, with the hand not still gripping his, tugged at his collar. There was a thin, fresh scar some inches below his left collarbone and a familiar round rise to the skin around. Anders slipped his hand out of Garrett's. His fingers grazed so gently over the flesh, just barely grazing the spot. A pacemaker, he knew instinctively. It was no joke, there was no more room for that possibility. The realization left Anders' eyes burning.

"Has it helped?" He could have guessed the answer. There was only so much the device was capable of, and Garrett's condition certainly did not seem by any means healed. It was something Anders should have known. Garrett, who was drinking water at their first date, who went to a coffee shop for decaf, who was at the hospital bus stop at least every other week. Slowly, Anders' hand traced down. His fingers neared the center of a half-shaven chest, almost experimental in their movement. Garrett did not so much as blink when Anders pressed his hand lightly to an oft-touched spot. 

He had hoped to find comfort there. Garrett's heart drummed evenly, quickly against his palm. He wanted to believe this was enough, that so long as his heart continued to beat, the worry could wait another day. The doom and gloom could be skirted against but never fully visited. When he felt Garrett's hand meet his there, though, felt it close over and then lift, Anders found he couldn't breathe. By the time Garrett's lips had brushed over his knuckles, his shoulders and back ached with the restraint of sobs. His eyes swam, but they locked to Garrett's. He couldn't seem to look anywhere else.

"Please don't give me those eyes," his thumb found the first tear, then the next. He let Anders press his face into his shoulder when it was too much to fight any more. For all the jokes and jests that Garrett seemed to be overflowing with, he did not say a word while Anders emptied his emotions in the most basic way possible. He chanced a hand against his back, and when it wasn't pushed away traced small circles beneath his shoulder blades. 

Anders barely felt the touch. He already felt as though Garrett had become a shadow, a ghost he clung to with no hope of keeping. There was a desperation growing in him, a desire to step up. He found, with a sickening start, that he wanted to cure him. He was a doctor, after all. He could do it, he had to do it. Except, as soon as the rush of confidence rolled through logic was soon to follow. Certainly the doctors Garrett had already seen were the very ones who were training Anders. What was there for him to do if they couldn't? He tried to find hope, but only frustration felt truly within his grasp.

"It isn't fair," he pulled himself away from Garrett to make the assertion. There would be more tears, he knew. He had found a way to swallow a portion of the hurt for now, though. He tucked it away, somewhere deep and lonesome where he had been hiding his hurts for many years. It was enough to keep him present, keep him in a state that closely resembled sanity.

"That's what I keep saying," he gave a smile, a more desperate one than before. He ran his thumb over Anders' cheek again and brushed some of the tear-soaked hair away from his temple. It was such a warm gesture, and with such an anguished expression that Anders forced himself to smile. He couldn't say how pitiful he must have looked, but Garrett seemed grateful for the attempt all the same.

"It's not all bad news," Garrett added with that same hopeless smile. Anders considered questioning how that could possibly be the case, but before he could, Garrett was already digging into his pocket. He retrieved something and held it concealed in a large fist until Anders put a hand out. When the small square of plastic was dropped into his hand, it took a moment to register exactly what he was looking at. "My consolation prize," Garrett explained, his smile growing just a little bit.

"A pager..." Anders turned it over in his hand, brow knitted in confusion. When it clicked, it did so in a way that made him gasp, then feel no better at all. "You're waiting for a transplant?" his voice was as hollow as could be when he asked. Garrett's apparent confidence was not as contagious as Anders might have wished. He knew the statistics like the back of his hand, and he knew it with a sickening sort of certainty. Even in the best case scenario, Garrett would be unlikely to see another decade.

"Is it morbid to want a stranger to die so badly?" he mused with a shrug. Anders' misgivings seemed to do little to dampen him, which was as frustrating as it was endearing. He paused for a drink of water, then his face became serious. Garrett rested a hand on Anders' knee and found his eyes, still swollen and watery. "Look, I know what this means. I know all the odds and statistics and all that garbage. I know that I might die before I ever get this chance, but it's my only chance. So I'd rather play at it working to my advantage. Whatever happens, it's better to face it brightly. Carver gives me enough of the doom patrol as it is."

Anders took a healthy gulp from his own glass of water, slick with condensation and quickly approaching room temperature. He found himself staring into the glass as he searched for his words. Garrett's explanation was sound, though it did little to placate him. At the heart of it all, Anders wanted to believe none of this was real at all. He kept hoping to wake, becoming more desperate every moment that he didn't. Above anything else, he didn't want it to be real. The more he thought about that, the more he wanted to cry again. He closed his eyes and focused himself on his breathing, on the warmth of Garrett's hand and any positive fact he could cling to. Then he focused on the moment itself and forced his eyes open. One step at a time. He tried to think in that manner, as a means of survival if nothing else.

"Do you mean it?" Anders finally asked. His voice was steadier than before but he barely spoke above a whisper, "You really regret meeting me?"

"No," Garrett spoke before Anders could properly finish the question. If there was any humor in his face, it left him entirely. Gently, he lifted Anders' chin, his thumb brushing lightly over stubble. "I regret hurting you. You told me about Karl, and I knew then that I should have stopped. How could I, though?" he cupped his cheek and smiled, soft and warm, "I wanted to run away, over and over, but..."

"But there are things you can't run from," Anders finished the thought for him. Garrett seemed pleased enough with the sentiment, as he did not say anything else. Instead, Anders felt a vaguely familiar warmth on his mouth. His lips parted to Garrett's, and as easily as that he could put aside all the hurt. Even if it was only a moment, he could live in the warmth and emotion. He tasted of coffee and the salt of Anders' own tears, but neither were enough to make Anders want to part.

There were moments to take breaths, most of them spent with Garrett confessing one over-zealous feeling or another. Some were spaced with apologies. Anders' mind had all but left him by the time Garrett's hand began trailing up beneath his shirt. It was warm and large, spanning halfway across his torso as it ran up his belly. His muscles tightened in response as soft fingers traced upwards, then the other hand to follow. Anders had reached for the hem of his shirt with every intent to strip it away when his senses snapped back to him. He parted from Garrett without another word and pushed his hands down, leaving him to look like a guilt-ridden pup.

"What the hell are you doing?" The demand was as sharp as Anders' glare. What the hell was he doing, not pushing him away sooner? Still, despite every ounce of better judgment, Garrett's expression was twisting his stomach into guilty knots.

"Striking out, it would seem," Garrett pouted out the explanation, one that only seemed to frustrate Anders further. His face said that he knew exactly what Anders was going to say next. That didn't stop him from saying it.

"You mean to tell me your heart is damaged beyond repair, but still you're well enough for that?" Anders crossed his arms against his chest. As fierce as he may have looked, his resolve was weak. Some part of him knew that the risk was probably minimal, no more than a brisk walk or the climb from the bottom floor to this very flat. Logic had little place here, though, and his scowl remained.

"I've had sex since I've been ill," Garrett pointed out, though there was an instant regret behind those words, visible enough that Anders did not make the more obvious accusations. Instead, he reached hesitantly and took Garrett's hand again. It was a precious thing, he decided. Garrett was precious on the whole, he expanded mentally. His words were unlikely to reflect his feelings, so he apologized. When Garrett began to look too hopeful, though, he shook his head.

"Don't you think the better course is to wait," Anders had to hesitate. Suddenly, he was very afraid. He was afraid waiting would mean he would never have the opportunity, a real enough threat. He was equally afraid that if Garrett couldn't get that from him, he may leave. This revelation had been enough to prove that as the last thing Anders wanted. Still, he pressed forward. He would take his chances, he decided, and hope Garrett able to accept it. "Until you've gotten your new heart, I mean?"

Garrett, to Anders' complete surprise, smiled at this suggestion. He squeezed Anders' hand and ran his thumb over grip-white knuckles. Anders found himself lost on the expression. He had expected any number of outcomes, the least of which being a smile. That was Garrett, though, terribly unpredictable in his optimism.

"That could be a long time. Are you sure you can put up with me that long without a payoff?" He tilted his head and lifted his eyebrows in a way that made Anders chuckle. He ached everywhere, and once Garrett had left for the night he felt distinctly that he would be spending time alternating between crying and vomiting. The moments they were together, though, he had no choice but to cherish.

"There's a payoff," Anders assured him. This time, he leaned up to instigate the kiss. He brushed his lips first over Garrett's rough bearded cheek, then pressed to the thin scar across the bridge of his nose. He was smiling again by the time his lips finally found Garrett's. He decided that, just for now, he would find a way to pretend that everything would be okay.


	5. Transition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sooner or later, it was bound to happen. Anders had been praying for later, but since when had anyone ever listened to his prayers?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have stayed with me so far, thank you all so much!

Anders felt that his reaction to the first hospitalization was nothing short of remarkable.

He had become the master of the brave face, of a mask so perfectly crafted that even he found himself coming close to believing the facade. That first time had been, in many ways, a test. He still carried every moment with him. Recalling the panic that set in when he received Carver's phone call could still send a chill down Anders' spine. He could still feel his heart stopping in his chest for just a second or two while a prickling sweat broke out at the back of his neck. The mad dash through hallways and stairwells, then through the maze that was the cardiac intensive care unit remained with him even now, months after the ordeal.

The culprit had been an infection, the sort that might have given a typical person a week of muted misery. Except, as Garrett was keen to remind Anders, he had passed the precipice that left him firmly outside the ranks of 'most people'. So he had been admitted and given an room and a wristband and some empty assurances that, given a few days and a nice round of antibiotics, his life would be back to its relatively calm, not-quite-normal state. This, however, was just the first notch; it was the first step for a 'normal' that was changing by degrees, and much more rapidly than any of them were ready to accept. There would be oxygen tanks and extra pills and new precautions to avoid a repeat performance of the infection. There wouldn't be more nights on the town, nor walks to the hospital to share a lunch break. As quickly as that, a new normal was in place.

Still, Anders had managed to keep a brave face and an air of confidence. There was still time, after all. People might wait months for an organ, and months more for one such as a heart. Garrett was young and strong and stupidly confident. He could play at immortality even as he was facing death; not that anyone would admit death might be a thing he would ever face. He wasn't there yet. It'd never go so far. He would spring back. He would get his transplant. He would live for breakthroughs and new procedures and, most crucially, a long, long time. It was what he told Anders, at least, and in time Anders learned to tell himself the same thing. He reminded himself of these truths, these promises, these absolute facts whenever a hint of doubt crossed his mind. He would replay the words when he lay at Garrett's side, too afraid to sleep. If he said it enough, he would certainly start to believe it eventually.

That all had been after the first hospitalization, though. The second brought with it the first cracks in that carefully crafted mask. It hadn't been terror that time, not quite. Instead, Anders found himself nearly crippled by his frustration. Garrett's reluctance to return to the hospital had been the catalyst. The true agitation, however, came when Anders found himself forced to accept new truths. The promises they made themselves were placebos and little more. Many people did wait months for their transplants. Many more died waiting, and Garrett was getting weaker by the day.

Anders' colleagues did not offer the return normalcy that second visit. Instead, they encouraged optimism. Garrett seemed to have taken that prescription to heart, although Anders had to wonder whether it was genuine. Perhaps his own mask was just a little more well-crafted. Regardless, he found reasons to smile even with bad news stacking against him. Anders couldn't help but wonder how it happened that Garrett seemed to be the one comforting and encouraging everyone else.

The days after Garrett's second release had come with new challenges. Chief among these was the task of enforcing an increase in bed rest. Garrett, for someone who held a diagnosis so grim, seemed convinced that he was ready to take on the world. Carver was always quick to point out that his brother was simply being difficult for the sake of it. This was, after all, a man who would take delight in sleeping a solid twelve hours when he was well. Anders couldn't quite bring himself to resent the stubborn streak entirely, though. That streak could very well mean the difference between life and death... assuming, of course, that life and death worked exactly like in the movies.

Those days, Anders found himself at the Hawke apartment as often as his own, and whichever residence he ended up at, Garrett seemed to as well. Even so, every bit of common sense Anders possessed was telling him to run. It was reminding him to save himself, pointing out that even Garrett said he would understand if Anders left. He didn't leave, though, nor did he even once regret it. Anders found Garrett in everything he saw; it was at once comforting and terrifying. There was a sort of catharsis that came with caring for the man, a warmth that blossomed with each touch and every gesture, and it kept the anxiety at bay so long as Anders could keep him close.

Those days were quickly forgotten when the third trip came about.

Everything had happened so quickly that even as Anders sat in the waiting room, he couldn't remember exactly how he got there. It had been hot out. It must have been hot. He was overheated and drenched in sweat, faint and short of breath. He remembered feeling like he was choking, suffocating on the air and his panic both. Even in the air conditioned waiting room, now well into the evening, he could feel the heat on him. The sweat chilled him until he trembled, hot and cold all at once.

He had seen Garrett fall, he remembered that much. He was at his side when he hit the ground. Did he hit the ground, though? No, Anders had caught him as he was sinking. The events came back to him with a bit of effort, not that he was sure he wanted them to. It hadn't been hard to halt Garrett's descent, he remembered. Everything had been going in slow motion, after all. Carver was there when it happened. He was there now, too, pacing the waiting room, wearing his worry like a crown. He must have been the one to call the ambulance for his brother while Anders was failing to fix him. He had definitely still been breathing. It was strained and shallow and rapid, ineffective and panicked, but it was life. He could still feel the breath on his cheek. He could hear his heart struggling, pounding in his ear, though as he considered it further, it must have only been his own.

The clock hanging above the admissions desk was saying that they'd been there for hours, with very little news. There had been a murmur that he was being taken to surgery, that the situation was critical and his best chance was an implant of, to be honest, Anders couldn't remember. They had been words he'd heard a million times. He'd been keeping study on these situations for years now. With Garrett behind the double doors, though, it was all a foreign language and an inexcusable wait. That damned waiting room didn't do a thing to help; damn the way it kept spinning and damn the temperature that couldn't seem to decide between blazing hot and freezing cold. Damn the blinding, flickering lights and the over-waxed floor that kept squeaking while Carver kept pacing. Most of all, Anders would have damned himself, if only he weren't already living an immaculate version of hell; one that smelled of sweat and disinfectant and fear.

More than even the fear, Anders was weighed by the guilt, heavy as anything could be. He had been here before. He had spent the hours waiting and praying and crying, all in vain. He had lived on scraps of news and he had seen how those nights end. He had become a doctor for perhaps no reason more than to avoid reliving this scenario. He would succeed where his seniors had failed. He would work miracles and he would never have to tell anyone he was sorry, that they had done all they could, that there really was nothing that could have fixed it.

He had been the one to blame that last time, too. It had been his car, his driving, his inattentiveness, his mistake. They called it an accident, blamed the weather and the road and any number of conditions, all lining up in just such a way that it sounded absolutely inevitable. They may not have blamed him outright, but they didn't need to. Anders had taken that guilt upon himself. He had seen through the reassurances and, when looking to lay blame, new exactly whose shoulders it should rest upon. This time really was no different.

He was a doctor. He should have known. He should have seen signs that Garrett was on such a severe decline. He should have been more firm about following the orders of rest. They shouldn't have been walking as they were during the day. They certainly shouldn't have been doing what they were at night. He should have researched more, found some alternative treatment. He should have invented a new way to save him, before they reached a stage where it seemed so apparently impossible. All the 'shoulds' meant little now, though; Only that he had failed once again to save the person who mattered most.

When the doctor made his appearance, it was well into the night. Carver had given up on pacing some time ago in exchange for a torrid affair with bitter and burnt complimentary Styrofoam cups of coffee. Anders had tried the pacing himself for a spell, but his feet kept stumbling and his knees kept threatening to buckle beneath his weight. So by the time this doctor, someone Anders was sure he had worked with at least peripherally, saw fit to speak with them, the men were sitting side-by-side and already defeated, with their Styrofoam cups and tired eyes.

The doctor's words should not have been as confusing to Anders as they were. He'd spent years studying medicine. He'd been working in the field, in this very hospital, for months now. He knew what it all meant. Had he taken the time to think the situation over properly, he might have guessed exactly what the course of action would be without the explanation that was both long-winded and at least marginally simplified. The disconnect came in applying the situation to Garrett. They were borrowing against time now, delving into what could easily be defined as last-ditch efforts. The implant he received might, if everything worked clean and quick, buy him enough time to wait out a donor. There were foreign terms and confusing explanations that Anders could have made himself, if only they were speaking about a stranger. This wasn't a stranger, though. It was Garrett, and even though logic said this was exactly the next step, it couldn't possibly be happening to him. He always said that he'd be fine. He kept making those promises. Anders wouldn't let himself think him a liar.

Carver had been glancing at Anders throughout the explanation. If he was trying to gauge the reaction, Anders knew he would find no comfort with it. His demeanor never improved, even as they were led down corridors that were all at once familiar and foreign, sat in a waiting room and told just how little they would be allowed to see Garrett over the course of the next few days. This was another lecture that shouldn't have been surprising to Anders. He knew the rules like the back of his hand, as he'd laid them out for strangers any number of times in his short tenure. Fifteen minutes an hour, and only one of them at any time. There would be little paper masks and extensive hand-washing and a cloying air filled with disinfectant and sounded by hushed anguish on all sides.

None of this was a surprise, though. Not once Anders was sitting in the waiting room, all strained silence and plenty of time to think. The shock, and the greatest difficulty thus far, would be when he was actually allowed in the room- more of a cubicle, really. It was all in trying to find Garrett amidst a sea of tubes and wires, looking smaller than Anders could ever remember him being. He was a ghost of himself in that bed, to put the situation kindly. Anders wanted to speak, but he couldn't actually remember his words whenever he got so far as to open his mouth. There were only so many times he could make the same confessions and pleas. 

It was on the third visit that he exchanged the pleas for plans.   
When he was coming up with these, it was suddenly terribly easy to speak. He could tell Garrett about the future they would share; the one where Garrett would get his heart and they would have a home and a dog and a cat and a big swimming pool in a big garden. Anders would have his own little practice and Garrett could help around the office or lounge at home or do whatever the hell he wanted, really. They would grow old together and look back with something near fondness on everything they had been through at the very start of their relationship. And Garrett just kept sleeping, so Anders didn't have to worry about the shame of the tears that came with the empty promises.

It was after that third visit that Carver finally spoke to Anders. They had been sitting in silence, thick and unbreakable, for hours up to that point. Anders felt about every muscle in his body tense up when Carver drew in the breath to speak. They had never forged much of a relationship, really. Their interactions tended to be, at best, terse. Anders attributed it to, if anything, the emotional barriers they were both so apt to keep. Garrett had made some other excuses for his brother's distance, though in all honesty, it hadn't bothered Anders terribly much. Carver seemed something of a difficult person to get along with even in the best of situations, and it wasn't all that hard to keep his distance this way.

"He's going to die, isn't he?" Carver's voice had shocked him in its smallness. The younger Hawke was nothing if not brash, loud, demanding. The resignation with which he posed the question was just as uncharacteristic, something that made Anders' stomach ache. He had no outright distaste for Carver. The boy had lost more than some people would ever have, and while Anders couldn't seem to find a way to approach him, he held Carver in a place of respect. The query itself was surprising as any of the rest. They had all done a fine job of pretending this day would never come, after all; so much so that it was easy to occasionally slip into believing it.

"Probably..." Anders found himself just as bewildered by his own response. Honesty had not been a value they were dealing highly in, and the blunt truth of the matter felt as foreign as it did bitter on his tongue.

"You could've lied," Carver said, but the fight was entirely gone from his voice. Anders had never seen him cry, but his eyes were as red-rimmed and swollen as his own. They were similar in more ways than either would readily admit. Anders was just as apt to hide his emotions when they would be read so easily as weakness. Even when they might have found comfort in each other, they basked in solitude, just chairs away.

"Haven't we done enough of that already?" When it came down to it, everything they had heard, everything being said, it was all what they had silently known for months. If there were genuinely any hope left, it rested on Garrett. They mirrored and smiled and did all they could to keep his spirits high, but here they stood at the end of the day and none of it had made any difference.

"I guess I never wanted to believe it," The strain in Carver's voice when he spoke was enough to make Anders wince. He wasn't sure they'd ever shared a proper conversation. When it came down to it, they were more strangers than friends, connected by the fraying strand that was Garrett. Still, he dare not mention this, held no intention to interrupt.

"He's so damn stubborn. I always imagined he would just will his way out of it, the way he does with everything else," there was a moment of hesitation, a hint of uncertainty, and for the first time that night Carver's eyes met Anders', "he's good at making himself out to be invincible, even with all this," his voice trailed again. While one hand gripped at the uncomfortable little chair's arm rest, the other smacked down at it and he grunted in frustration, "I can't believe he's bailing on me too."

Anders' head picked up just slightly. Garrett hadn't been entirely forthcoming with the details of their family situation, but he had made it clear enough that the brothers were all that remained of the Hawke clan. There had been a brief mention of a sister- a twin to Carver- but it had been so brief, so uncomfortable, that Anders hadn't been able to bring himself to ask anything more about her.

"I've had a long time to deal with this and it still seems impossible. Maybe I convinced myself of that all along," Anders could commiserate in that admission. He had known nearly since he met Garrett that, sooner or later, they would be right where they sat. There would be a time, like it or not, that Anders would be forced to face Garrett's mortality. Anders had convinced himself time and again, against all better judgment and obvious evidence, that it would somehow be so much later.

"There's still some time," even as Anders said it, he knew it didn't matter. No matter how much more time they had, it wouldn't be enough. When the terms were set realistically, that time might only be hours, days, weeks. Months would be a blessing, years a downright miracle. Even should a heart become available at that very moment and every condition fall perfectly into place, they might win another decade. None of that would be enough.

"I thought we had enough lying," Carver made a sound close to a dry laugh. Anders didn't have an argument against this response. It was true, after all. They might not know exactly how much time they had left, but they knew where it would get them. They could lie to themselves and they could lie to Garrett, and soon enough they would be right back here, crushed by the truth all the same.

"Why did you stay?" Carver asked, breaking the silence yet again. The question was both simple and fair, but deceptively difficult for Anders to answer. Logically, he had every reason in the world to leave. Garrett had given him the opportunity time and again, so easily and openly that Anders had come to wonder whether he really wanted him around. There had been an argument there, though the sentiment still made his stomach ache. Garrett had, even on the most selfless level, regretted bringing Anders into his life. Even if it was for no reason but guilt, he might not have ever given that hello if he could do it all over. That was enough to make tears threaten again.

"I love him," it had been the simple, most obvious answer. It was the first that sprang to his mind, and while Carver's expression told that he wasn't impressed, it was truth. He and Garrett had been exchanging the words for weeks. There had never been a hint of hesitance between them. Garrett had said it first ,quite by accident, he would later admit. Anders had already responded similarly before Garrett could backpedal or apologize, and it was all easy as that.

"That's it?" Carver seemed skeptical, though Anders couldn't begin to say why. It was hard to imagine what else there might have been, or what made Carver so suspicious. It was fair enough to presume he was merely being protective of his brother, of his only family, but that didn't make it any less nonsensical.

"It's all I need," Anders said. His tone had become sharp in response to the accusation, even if he couldn't begin to imagine what the was being accused of.

"and what about the guilt?" Anders' heart caught in his throat with the question. Simple as that, he understood exactly what Carver had assumed. He couldn't blame him for it. He wouldn't be surprised if that suspicion was what had put such a wedge between them from the start. It should have come as no surprise that Carver might see the relationship as leaning more on a sense of entrapment than affection. How could Anders really blame him? Carver had been thrust into a position where he was suddenly playing the role of protector, and the first thing that happened was for his brother to open himself up to heartbreak.

"If it was about that, I could've left. I would've left. He told me to leave if it was that, and I'm not going to lie to him," even as Anders said it, he could anticipate the response.

"That's what we've been doing all along, though."

"I don't think we have time to do it any longer."

That was the truth of it, and it was becoming more apparent with each passing hour, with each day. The conversations held between Anders and Carver to an extent as the fleeting time continued to slip. One would ask a question and the other would bristle at the words. They were accusations, and most of them true. It was an act of breaking each other down and unearthing truths they should have never buried quite so deep.

Outside the conversations, outside the shifts on other floors of the hospital he never seemed to leave, Anders' life had become a waiting game; waiting for his turn to visit, waiting for work to end, waiting for Garrett to wake up, waiting for the right person to just die already so all the damn waiting could stop.

The waiting would come to an end in stages. A shift would end, a new visit would come, and after some days, Garrett would wake up. That brought even more waiting, though, as the tubes and the medications made communication an impossibility. His mind may have remained dulled, but Garrett's frustration was sharp as could be. It wore on Anders and Carver both, though neither could rightly blame him. There was no question that he was in pain, and even less that he knew that time was running thin.

When it finally came that Garrett could speak again, he seemed quick to realize he had little to say. Anders had, for whatever reason, expected Garrett to come to the same sort of pained acceptance that he and Carver had found. The odds of him coming home had been markedly lowered, to say the least, by the surgery. Everything depended, more heavily than ever, on the donor coming through. The optimism that Garrett held in that respect, an attitude that used to encourage Anders so greatly, had become equal parts frustrating and terrifying. Neither man could seem to bring themselves to speak of the matter at hand, not with any measure of realism. All the expectations Anders and Carver had of honesty, of steeling and preparing themselves with the truth at the forefront, had easily been cast aside with Garrett's optimism.

The bright side, at least by Anders' perspective, was that Garrett was eventually moved to a private room. It meant the restrictions on visitation would be lifted; that Carver could spend days at his brother's side while Anders appeared in the evening. The conversations were no longer intercepted by barbs between the brother and the lover. It even felt, when disbelief was suspended just enough, like they weren't separated by the million invisible miles that lay between sick and well.

"You don't have to stay," this seemed to be Garrett's favorite reminder to Anders, particularly when he was struggling with his fears. It was, or at least Anders liked to think it was, out of a place of concern, "it's a lot, and I never see you smile any more," his thumb ran over Anders' knuckles as he worried, an expression on his thoroughly tired face that made Anders' heart sink.

"I don't want to leave," he tried one of those requested smiles to go along with the assertion, but it failed magnificently. Anders was a broken man, one crumbling further by the day. He could only blame himself for it. After all, he was the one who fell in love with a man dying more quickly than most. The fact that this man in particular was so willing to give him an out somehow made the situation more painful still. He was shifting just a bit in his chair, flipping his hand to grasp Garrett's when he went on, "not being with you is the whole thing that's got me so upset, remember?" 

Garrett seemed to be considering Anders' words quite thoroughly, a thought that somewhat unnerved Anders. Garrett was quick witted, if not over-eager with his responses. Putting enough thought into his words that there was so much as a missed beat left Anders uneasy, to say the least.

"I understand where this all stands, you know," Anders could do nothing other than frown. Hawke could well have been a psychic, the way he seemed to be able to read Anders like a book. He smiled when he saw the surprise on Anders' face at the words, "even if I hadn't known all along, the way you two have been since I woke up hasn't exactly made it hard to figure out. Carver hasn't had a single fight with me all week, do you know that? Hasn't stormed out of the room even once," he gave a dry laugh and another little squeeze at Anders' hand, "then you, my love, look as though you'll break down every time you walk in the room. And I swear there was another thing," he gave an exaggerated pause, then feigned epiphany, "that's right! I have a machine doing half the work of my worthless heart, with so many batteries that I get to wear a damn holster under each arm to keep it going.

"So yes, I know I'm dying. I know I'm not going to get the heart before it's too late. I knew that from the start. I knew I might eventually need this surgery, and I know that it means I'm not going home, I'm not getting better. Now, I can't know this much, but I'm guessing that what you expect is for me to be depressed as you guys both are, right? Hopeless and all that, like anyone dying rightly should be."

Anders was at a loss for words. The shock on his face had, over the course of Garrett's words, turned to guilt. It shouldn't have been any surprise that Hawke was well aware of what was happening with his own body. He had been living with the illness longer than Anders had been in the picture. Garrett noticed the reaction on Anders' face and, at once, his expression softened.

"That didn't really come out right, let me try again..." he had to pause once more, struggling again to find the words, presumably better ones than before, "Listen. I've had a long time now to come to terms with this. All the and depression and disbelief, I've dealt with that. It's still a little scary, but that's not going to change. I'm ready to face it, even if nobody else is," his smile had faded, become one of sadness even if he was doing his best to prove otherwise.

"You knew I was going to die almost as soon as you met me. Do you think I told you to leave for my own benefit? I guess I'd assumed that if you were going to stay, you had made peace with it," he shook his head slowly at that, "how can you ever make peace with losing someone you care about, though? You know that, and I really should, too. It's all so much different when you're the one dying-"

"Garrett!"

"No, just hear me out, okay? I love you. I wanted to get better, I'm not gonna lie. I wanted to turn around, miraculously pull through all this," he was licking his lips between words, looking absolutely uncomfortable with what he was trying to say, "I wanted to make things right for Carver. I wasn't much of a brother when he needed it. And all the things we wanted-"

"Stop!" Anders' voice came louder than he expected, but the truth was simply that he couldn't bear the words Garrett was saying. His eyes burnt and his cheeks were wet, and while Garrett's gaze was entirely empathetic, he couldn't bring himself to face it, "I don't want this. I didn't want to believe it or accept it. I thought I would be ready, I thought I had it under control, but I don't even want to. I don't want to have to. I just want... I just want you..." his hands were fists, clenched as tightly as they could in his lap. His shoulders shook with his unsteady breathing, more a series of desperate gasped sobs.

"I'm sorry," the sentiment was thick in Garrett's voice, "I'm really, really sorry, Anders. I didn't want this, either. I shouldn't have done this to you, I shouldn't-"

"Stop," he interrupted again, this time his voice as small and broken as the rest of him. He swiped at his eyes and gave a might sniff and shook his head, "You're gonna say you shouldn't have met me? Save your breath. And don't even think about giving me some grand goodbye. That's all this is, apologies and 'should haves' and I don't want it," he may have been harsher than he meant, but he couldn't seem to stop himself, "I thought I wanted you to be realistic, but I don't. So just go back to pretending everything will be okay. All I wanted was for it to be okay, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't help you any more than anyone else. I wasted time on wishes and hopes and good thoughts, and I couldn't do anything to save you."

That would always be the crux of it. There would always be one way or another that Anders would find himself insufficient. Whether he usually would have thought Garrett his type or not, he had wound up being exactly what Anders wanted, what he needed. Whatever imperfections he might have shown were more endearing than distancing. Everything he did, everything he said, it was always somehow the right thing. Anders would never live up to that, though falling short to what he felt was an impossible standard wasn't what bothered him so much. It was the sheer inability to help that was driving to tears.

"You've done so much," Garrett was reaching to the best of his hindered ability, grasping at Anders' wrist, trying hopelessly to provide some semblance of comfort, "you've made these few months better than I've had in years. Nobody could fix me, Anders. I've had doctors who have been working longer than I've been alive. I'm at a great hospital. It's not your fault that you can't do the impossible. You've loved me, and that's close enough," he lifted Anders' hand and pressed kisses against the cool flesh over his knuckles, "you've made life good again, something that I might actually miss. Don't even think that isn't as important as anything else."

It wasn't hard for Anders to see how his tirade had upset Garrett, which only compounded how much he was hurting. The words, in another situation, might have filled him with a fluttery warmth. Here, though, he'd sooner give life than happiness. He would have gone away, if only he thought it could help, no matter what he might have brought. He knew it was selfish and, quite simply, he didn't care.

"I want you to live, though."

He said it like a prayer, a plea. He had thought it a million times, said it a hundred, to no avail. However, in that moment, in the moments leading up to it, a number of remarkable events had been occurring. They were small tragedies that neither Garrett nor Anders could be aware of, the sort that might compound to create a miracle. It might have been luck or fate or chance or some sort of god, none could say, but as those words hung in the air, a doctor vaguely familiar to Anders had swept into the room. His expression was brighter than Anders had seen on any of Garrett's caregivers in weeks and, when he realized just what was happening, it hit him like electricity.

"Might I interest you in a heart, sir?"


	6. Panacea

Anders knew vaguely that there were supposed to be stages of grief. The knowledge was tucked somewhere in the back of his mind, filed neatly on a shelf and covered with dust from disuse. If he thought the hypothesis too neatly put, too easy to navigate the first time he faced loss, he could have laughed outright at the theory in the weeks following Hawke's death. Denial, admittedly, had only lasted a few blessed minutes. He could only convince himself there had been a mistake; he hardly had the strength to scream and rage that this was supposed to be the cure, it was the miracle, it was hope and it was going to work. A look at Carver's face, the sound of the surgeon's words, a hand on his shoulder, it all brought the construct crashing and he went plummeting at once through a spiral of anger, bargaining, and depression. There were no stages. There were walls, closing in at all ends. There was darkness spreading from their intersecting corners. There was not acceptance. There would never be acceptance.

He tried at first to remember if it had been so bad when he lost Karl. He tried to place the pain, the stabbing and the aching, the searing and the endless. The time before Garrett seemed hazy, it resided in a deep fog that was rolling toward the present, clouding the most important memories, and if he tried to look back so far, he lost track of where he stood all together. He tried to remember if he had loved Karl, really loved him, in such a heated and urgent and all-consuming way that he had grudgingly found himself loving Garrett. He couldn't remember that either. He couldn't seem to remember anything. He tried to bring his minds to the first words they shared; then to the last ones. He tried to recall any specific conversation, anything that he could hold on to, that he could fix in his memory and tattoo on his heart and know, for as long as he knew anything, that he still had a piece of the man. There was nothing. Looking back was a storm, a whirlwind, a blizzard; it had devastated him completely, without leaving a point where he could see it turned from dazzling to disaster. 

He wanted to give up. He wanted to hide beneath blankets and sheets until he faded away, until there was nothing left of him to present to the world. He already felt half a person on the best of days. He wasn't sure if there was a particular point when Hawke became such an integral part of him, and not for lack of grasping for the moment. He tried to chase the memories, but they were little more than a ghost, nothing but a specter, haunting and fleeting and terrifying, all while being so inherently beautiful. His world, every angle and every corner of it, was gray and dulled and touched cold by death; there was an eerie glow, a sun hidden somewhere behind the clouds, falling fast, promising an absolute night to follow. The light remained, the warmth that was love, that was Hawke, but it was dulled and hidden and did little more than cast black shadows.

Every day was the worst day.

The first Worst Day was the day that it happened. The Last Day Things Were Okay. There had been hope, so much hope, actual optimism for the first time since Hawke's decline. Anders could remember seeing him before hand, he could remember a conversation, but none of the words. He could feel the warmth on his hand, could recall how soft and frail the touch became, how fleeting it all felt, and then the overwhelming, absolutely soaring hope. He hated to remember the hope most of all. He would have traded it to remember those last words more clearly, to be able to recall Hawke's comforts rather than the vague rumble of his voice. Instead, he remembered confidence, he remembered being sure that things had finally gone right. More clearly since that first worst day, he remembered the crushing, drowning sensation when it was pulled from under him. He felt the numb chill, the way his mind screamed that this wasn't what he wanted, this wasn't what should have happened. He felt the betrayal of promises, the false glimmer that had grown so bright. He felt it more than any of the comforting words or the odds he was already well-aware of.

The funeral was the next of the Worst Days that would cling to him, apparently forever. The thought of spending hours beside Carver had somehow become less daunting. Some part of Anders, though he wouldn't rightly admit it, saw the younger Hawke as the final link. He was a familiar face in a sea of strangers, a sort of anchor to a time that was already slipping away. He glowered and glared right alongside the boy he had resolved himself to disliking. He ducked out of rooms and through crowds, overwhelmed and boiling with anger. He listened to talk from old acquaintances, friends who never bothered to show their faces in the last weeks, in the last months. He heard murmurs and snippets, all proclaiming Hawke a hero, all lamenting how they would miss him. Anders wanted to hit them. He wanted to scream at every unfamiliar face. He wanted to demand where they had been for this man they all cared so much about when he was still alive. He wanted to know how he and Carver had been the primary visitors, how only his god-damned ex had visited more than once besides them, how any of these people had a right to say they were paying respects when they didn't give a damn while Garrett was still breathing.

He had come within inches of snapping, and when he had opened his mouth in response to a bystander he logically knew innocent, well-meaning, he was shuffled aside by a girl who at once was familiar and a stranger. He could guess her quickly enough to be Bethany, Carver's fabled twin, away at school and just as little a presence as any of the others. He snapped words at her, angry and pointed and accusatory, and he apologized in almost the same breath. The anger was still boiling inside him, but as it simmered and reduced, he was left with a hot sort of guilt, a shame for thoughts and words that had no rightful place. She had hardly flinched, though. She had been a picture of grace, and when he had quieted himself, when he had choked down a sob following the hasty apology, she put a hand on his shoulder and offered the most sincere condolence he had yet received. 

He whispered something in a shaky voice, the kind that came after he had run out of tears but not the emotion behind them. His murmur was a wish, a longing for whatever day he could feel better again. For a time when it wouldn't hurt so unbearably much. For a day when this feeling would go away.

She told him, her tones deceptively sweet while brutally honest, that the day would never come. It would change, and it would hurt in different days, and eventually they might even be able to live with the hurt, but it would never go away. He wanted to yell at her again, but instead they hugged and he excused himself to the parking lot. Outside, it was indecisive, bright and blustery with a look of rain on the horizon. Anders wished it was cold. He wanted it to be storming and gloomy. He wanted the heavens to cry like he was, wanted the world to mourn as well. He wanted to feel like he was in a movie, where the entire universe felt the impact of one life lost, where the weather changed to match his mood and the well-wishers did more than infuriate. He wanted to hear about the man he loved, not a generic sermon with a name attached. He wanted at once to run and to stay rooted there forever; to forget Hawke had ever been a thing that had happened to him, and to remember without fault their every moment together; to scream and laugh and cry and sing and live and die all at once. He wanted to feel like, even if it was some time far away, some time he couldn't see or wouldn't see for a long time, he might be happy again.

The feeling continued to elude him.

Today had been the worst of all the Worst Days. Today he was alone, more desperately and completely alone than he had felt since before he knew Hawke, since before he lost Karl, since before he could hope to remember. Today he sat with cold granite and freshly churned soil and that cold rain he had so desperately wanted on the day of the funeral. Today seemed endless, hopeless, relentless. He wanted to dig out the grave and crawl in. At very least, he wanted to drown in the rain or freeze under the hail it turned to. He wanted, as he had wanted since he saw the surgeon's face on the First Worst Day, to go back to the beginning. He wanted to go back further still. He wanted to know what he did now, to find Hawke when they could have still had time. He wanted to find him before he was sick, find a way to prevent it, find some hope to fix it. He wanted to be more trusting, less uncertain at their first meeting. He wanted to take back every fight or disagreement, every night that he spent working instead of curled in Garrett's arms. He wanted a million impossible things with such ferocity that it was burning a hole in his belly.

There were mantras replaying in his head. He begged for an answer, for some meaning to what had happened. He begged for a reason that Garrett Hawke was dead, despite never doing a damned thing to deserve it. He pleaded to understand why he had to fall in love with him in the first place, why they ever had to meet, why he had to become more than a name carved in stone or printed in a newspaper. He wanted to know why he couldn't help, why he bothered with his profession at all, if everything he did was a hopeless stall. He searched for reason, for the purpose that had driven him. He grabbed for some new inner strength, for some valiant inspiration set deep in his being by what had happened to him, to Hawke, to so many people he had never known. Most of all, most ridiculously and secretly and shamefully, he longed for a ghost.

Anders wanted nothing more than to catch a glimpse of some faded mirror of the man he loved. He wanted to see what was impossible, to have that one last chance to say everything he never knew he wanted to say. He wanted to hear a voice or feel a touch, even if it was an unnatural cold. He wanted something more than a name, than an inscription, than dates that lie too close together and made angry marks on his fingers from how hard he traced over them. He wanted more than a memory. He wanted Hawke back, wanted this all to be a nightmare, wanted to wake up and find that Hawke was still alive, that there was still hope, that it all hadn't been a setup to destroy him so completely. All the wishing and hoping he did there, sitting in the murky puddle forming between soil and grass, crying and whispering and begging, did him nothing. Hours in the cold, in the rain that became hail, then sleet, then snow, chilling him to the bone and numbing his extremities, made him feel no better. Sitting only a few feet from Garrett didn't coax him back into existence. Whatever he thought or prayed or wished for, Anders was alone.

There had been no last minute cure, no miracle, no panacea. 

Anders had heard, more appropriately, been warned of the mark death could leave on a young doctor. He had been advised to distance himself from the dying to help those that could still live. Certainly, that didn't involve falling in love with someone who walked such a short and painful path. He could hope, and he really hated to hope any more, that it would come to drive him. He could try and turn the despair, the hopelessness, the isolation, into a cause. He could vow that, while no man could beat death, he could spare others what he had to live with every day. He could accept that not everyone could be saved, but that the fact didn't detract from the good he could potentially do. All of these coulds and shoulds and mights and maybes would come much later though.

All Anders could do in those first days, weeks, months, was remember. Remember, and try to live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. I know this ending is short and probably very poorly written and for that, I apologize. I honestly cannot believe this story took over a year to finish and if anyone's stuck with me this whole time, I really do appreciate it. On that matter, I thank every single one of you who has left kudos or a nice comment along the way. This last chapter was pretty emotional to write, and maybe it's way too much as far as melodramatic statements and bad metaphors go. Either way, thank you thank you thank you so much to everyone who's read/enjoyed/suffered through this. I love you all!


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